


Evanescent

by elystia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elystia/pseuds/elystia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is not an unintelligent man, and he knows he cannot hope to participate in a clash between titans. The two men are poised for a conflict that will no doubt rip them both apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evanescent

**Author's Note:**

> Written post-The Great Game. This was my take on things before S2 aired.

John Watson is not an unintelligent man, despite his interactions with Sherlock Holmes creating an unfavorable juxtaposition. 

He knows that his flatmate’s mind doesn’t operate the same way everyone else’s does. It processes information with all the ruthless efficiency of a computer decoding a series of ones and zeroes, and—not to be outperformed by a mere machine, even in analogies—is capable of simultaneously applying that information and making leaps in logic that even a sharpened intellect would need to grapple with to fully understand.

Yet, despite Sherlock’s superhuman skill in intellectual gymnastics, he falters in areas that others would consider rudimentary: social interaction, for one. It’s not necessarily that he _can’t_ communicate with others; it just requires more effort, and John suspects that it’s simply easier for his friend to forego that effort entirely. He tends to come off as abrasive and egotistical as a result. Cold, distant. _Sociopathic._

Although this trait is tiring, John is almost thankful for it, sometimes. It reduces Sherlock to a mere mortal in his eyes. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Sherlock Holmes bleeds red, too.

 

***

_“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”_

Three bombs. Two madmen. And one larger, unspoken ultimatum.

It is months later that John realizes how ironic his likening of Sherlock’s intellect to a superpower really is, when it becomes clear that it is also his _hamartia_. Jim Moriarty knows this, too, because he is just the same as Sherlock. John watches helplessly as each man pursues the other out of nothing more than—apparently—the satisfaction of the chase. And when John comments that they’re perfect for one another…well, he’s not being entirely sardonic.

John Watson is not an unintelligent man; he knows he cannot hope to participate in a clash between titans. But it takes a deserted pool, several sniper rifles, and ten pounds of explosives to warn him that he has become an unwitting liability.

***

“John.”

John blinks groggily. There’s a low, dull ringing in his ears and his eyes sting like they’re full of soot. He thinks he can hear a fire roaring somewhere. Maybe that’s what the heat is, but he can’t be sure. Maybe that’s why he has soot in his eyes.

_”John.”_

The voice is growing more insistent, so he turns his head toward it. When his neck immediately protests, he aborts the motion. “Sherlock,” he responds, his voice coming out as a ragged burst of air, quite ruining the soothing effect he had been aiming for. 

John thinks he hears a low murmur of “thank God”, but he can’t really be sure with the bloody ringing in his ears. It seems odd, coming from Sherlock, so he dismisses the notion.

“Can you stand?”

John begins mentally cataloguing his injuries. More scrapes and bruises than are worth noting, what feels like an impressive burn on the left side of his face, and what is very likely a concussion. He’s also soaking wet. _Ah, the pool_. That explains the stinging in his eyes. And why he isn’t dead, come to that. He remembers launching himself forward, just a split second before Sherlock pulled the trigger, sending them both flying into the relative safety of the water as the building went up. Sherlock must have pulled them both out, because he’s certain he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself in this state.

“I doubt it,” he responds honestly, propping himself up on his elbows in order to get a better look at his companion. Sherlock is just as soaked as he is, hair dripping into his eyes, and bleeding heavily from a laceration above his right eye. But he’s vertical, so he’s in better shape than John is.

Sherlock bends down and hoists John up by the waist. Looking around, John sees that the pool has been reduced to a smouldering pit, debris scattered everywhere. And no sign of Jim Moriarty anywhere.

John Watson is not an unintelligent man, but he dutifully ignores the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes; it’s easier to pretend that he doesn’t know, with a creeping feeling of dread, what it means.

Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes are poised for a conflict that will no doubt rip them both apart, and there’s nothing John can do to stop it. All he can do is wait.

***

Before, they would sometimes stop at the Chinese on the corner of Baker Street after wrapping up a case, usually at some unspeakable hour of the morning. (Afterward they would share a derisive chuckle over the fortune cookies. "'Your confidence is your greatest asset.' How is that a _fortune_?") On a few memorable occasions they had movie marathons—usually at John’s horrified insistence (“You’ve never seen _James Bond_?”)—that Sherlock endured long-sufferingly. Most nights, though, Sherlock would play his violin while John sat nearby, reading a novel or simply listening and enjoying the proximity.

But those things don’t happen anymore. Sherlock is too distracted. No, too _focused._

After the incident at the pool, John doesn’t repeat his mistake of questioning Sherlock’s motives—whether he cares about the people whose lives are at stake. He knows where Sherlock’s singular attention is really focused, and how can he compete with something so _interesting_? 

John hates that bloody pink phone.

Photos and clippings are taped to just about every wall and piece of furniture in the flat, horizontal surfaces having long since run out. Sherlock tears through rows of old newspapers, apparently combing for evidence that may not even exist. The feverish glow of Sherlock’s eyes is contrary to what should be the physical limitations of his body. Surely he hasn’t slept in at least four days? If he has, John hasn’t seen him do it. But he can’t say he envies Sherlock the nervous energy, because that’s the reason for all this trouble in the first place, isn’t it?

“Sherlock,” he murmurs after a while. He’s not really sure why he’s going through the motions anymore; this isn’t the first time he’s badgered Sherlock about sleeping, or eating, or doing anything that doesn’t involve hunting down his pet psychopath. When he doesn’t get any response at all, he’s not really surprised. What’s surprising is the pang of something akin to fear.

_“Sherlock,”_ he repeats, and there must be a new edge in his voice, some noticeable desperation, because Sherlock looks up from his mess of newspaper clippings and seemingly irrelevant photographs. 

“I know what you’re going to say, John. I’m not going to let this go,” he sounds almost apologetic. He runs a hand through his hair, causing more dark curls to stand on end. “I _can’t_.” Sherlock looks at him imploringly, as if begging him to understand. John concludes, with no small amount of bitterness, that his understanding really is of no consequence. 

It’s like water slipping between his clenched fingers. It doesn’t matter how tightly he holds them together—the moisture will drain away eventually, leaving his hands dry and wanting.

John Watson is not an unintelligent man, no. But he doesn’t understand why things have had to come to this. He heads to bed without another word, inexplicably angry with himself and suddenly unable to watch as Sherlock trickles away, little by little. All he can do is wait.

 

***

It’s raining on the night, some weeks after their ordeal at the pool, that Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes once again cross paths. Sherlock, having continued his single-minded pursuit of his strange counterpart, and Moriarty, absolutely _thrilled_ that he’s done so. John is certain that all of London is shuddering in anticipation of their confrontation. 

John only feels dread, a sick feeling that seems to crawl beneath his skin. He’s certain he knows how this will end, and all he wants to do is seize Sherlock by the shoulders, shake him, scream at him—do _something_ to call him back from this fatal trance he’s fallen into—but he knows it would be a wasted effort. So he follows Sherlock into the dark warehouse, military-issued firearm in tow, ready to render whatever service his friend may require. 

 

Hours later, as John Watson staggers alone from that dark warehouse, he wonders if maybe he _is_ an unintelligent man after all. Because he still doesn’t understand.

He can hear sirens in the distance, knows he’ll have to wait and speak to Lestrade, to Mycroft—oh, _God_ , Mycroft—but he can’t seem to focus on anything aside from the rain coming down in sheets, soaking through his coat and freezing him to the bone. He examines his hands, still clutching the gun—the gun, not quick enough, not tonight, covered in blood, _Sherlock’s_ blood.

John drops the gun: useless. He holds his hands out in front of him and watches the water slip between his fingers, taking the blood with it. 

He waits.


End file.
